La Nuit Du Chasseur
by Loz.Loola
Summary: Dean/Blair. 'His mouth tastes like sour cherry and she has no idea why but when their fingers lace and her ruby red ring digs into her skin, the pain is ecstasy.'


**Author:** Lauren.

**Rating:** Rated M.

**Character/Pairing:** Blair Waldorf, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (mentioned), Dean/Blair

**Summary:** Dean/Blair. 'His mouth tastes like sour cherry and she has no idea why but when their fingers lace and her ruby red ring digs into her skin, the pain is ecstasy.'

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine aside from the crazy, mixed up crossover storyline (:

**Author's Note:** I'm trying something a little new here so encouragement would be appreciated (: Basically, I've always thought they'd be interesting, and I got inspired this afternoon and voila, instant Dean/Blairness. It might be a one shot, I don't really know, it's an experiment more than anything. But yes, reviews as always are muchly muchly loved. Thanks if you check this out guys, it means a lot.

* * *

Memories are cruel.

They twist and mutate and ache until they're something else entirely and you don't even understand the concept of truth, let alone acknowledge that it once existed.

It once existed. So did they. So did she.

They were blood and bones and beautiful and buried. Six feet under with soft earth compacting them in. Safe now. Held now.

On the bad days she's dark and empty and on the better ones she's angry and smashed into a million tiny Blair shaped pieces. Jagged and hurtful and she'd lash out if there was anyone left.

She meets him in a bar. She says meets because he sits next to her and offers to buy her a drink. She declines and says she can buy her own thank you very much.

Maybe he didn't buy the drink, maybe he bought her.

His mouth tastes like sour cherry and she has no idea why but when their fingers lace and her ruby red ring digs into her skin, the pain is ecstasy.

The old Blair Waldorf would have turned her nose up at anything less than the sleek blackness of a Lincoln Town Car but this new girl, unknown girl curls up in the passenger seat of the Impala like it's her own.

He seems used to having a passenger and she isn't sure why but maybe it's got something to do with the toy solider that sits in the ashtray by the backseat. It's just one of those innate feelings she has, a twist in her stomach that she used to get all the time. Like when Nate looked at Serena. _The Shepherd wedding and blonde tangled hair and bare legs and it was just the champagne._

He's like a drug (not like the ones from before, tracks run deep in her arm) and it's addictive and she (loves) feels. Something.

She learns. In the shadows, he talks and shivers when she runs a delicate finger over the scars. Stories and once he even, albeit accidentally, mentioned him. Sam. He visibly flinched and she didn't ask because she knew what it felt like to react that way. She still did whenever someone mentioned the letters.

S and N and C.

The word apocalypse didn't mean anything to Blair. At least, in the beginning. It was just a word, strewn carelessly across the New York Post that she knocked out of her way as she reached for the orange juice jug across the table. It was just a word written on the laptop screen as Serena scrolled across to look at dresses for Cotillion, squealing over Pamela Dennis and gold and oh so beautiful. It was just a word when Nate mentioned his Grandfather's suggestion that they get out of New York and stay at the country house, but Blair had shut his mouth with a kiss then.

The word apocalypse means everything to Blair now.

But Dean never feels like a mistake and that's a novelty after Chuck and guilt and she never accused Nate of being a hypocrite. Not once. She probably should have done.

She dreams about the past. A curtain of blonde hair and a smile curving on pink lips and endless martinis. Penthouse parties and bright eyes and bath tubs overflowing with bubbles and always them. Always together. But that's not how it ended.

Now it's just Blair left of the old days and she didn't know what to do with herself so she ran. And with money bought drugs and alcohol and time. Time slipping through her fingers.

Dean's searching. She realises that now, that he has purpose and she misses having something akin to that herself, even if it was social climbing. Because she was a Blair then and now that she doesn't act that way is she still a Blair?

Her hair isn't ringlets like before and Marc Jacobs and Chanel and Oscar De La Renta used to be friends to her but now she wears his t-shirts. It should be freeing but she doesn't know if it is because sometimes she reaches out in the night, hoping that someone might be beside her. Hoping that they might have blonde hair or a seductive grin or a sweater with her golden heart embroidered in the sleeve. But it's always Dean, tangible and actual and his fingers clasp her waist, still tiny like before, and he's better than any other boy but she still misses them.

What does that say?

In the end she tells him the stories. The memories, even the ones that she'd thought were under lock and key. Drunk Serena, Thanksgiving, fighting in the bathroom with a shower head and all she can see is Serena's golden hair, flying out in all directions as she twirls in the spray and all she can smell is Nate's aftershave as he presses her into his chest, protecting her face from the water.

She cries then because to say their names is to remember and to feel the pinch of Louboutins, the good pinch and her Mother's voice telling her she'll never be thinner or prettier or happier than she is right now. Right now? Right now.

He's soothing, more so than she'd expected, she hadn't asked him to hold her hand but he did. He squeezed and somehow she squeezed back. Maybe there was life left in her yet.

She doesn't ask questions about his S until she has to, until they're burning on her lips and she can't keep inhaling and staying silent. Sammy, Sammy, where are you?

And it's one night as they lie in the back of the Impala, his calloused fingers (oh so soft on her skin) tracing circles on her shoulder.

"I think we'll find him."

It's we, not you and it's out of her mouth before she could stop herself because they've started verbalising their thoughts since what's the point in keeping quiet anymore when it's the end of the world.

If he's surprised he hides it well but he's thoughtful and she finds that she cares what's going on inside his head. She asks but he can't really give her a straight answer. She knows it's all Sam, Sam, Sam in there anyway.

Sometimes she wonders what he's like. Sam Winchester, the elusive younger brother. Sure, he's tall and dark haired and Dean says that he's a little bit of a health freak when he wants to be, but Blair is still curious.

Because Dean never lets anyone in (she isn't even sure she's in) and Sam has been a permanent fixture in his life since he was four and now he suddenly isn't. And he could be dead or worse at this point. But Dean still surges on and she wonders how he finds the strength, the drive to do that on a daily basis when most mornings the only reason she comes out of the motel room is because he half carries her.

Her experiences with the supernatural become wide and varied and she survives through them all somehow, by the skin of her teeth and usually with an injury or two. But Dean looks a little proud every time she fights something else off so she can't help but enjoy kicking evil ass. Especially when she imagines that every single one of them somehow had a hand in the deaths of her friends.

Is friends the right word? It sounds so vague and non descript, when her relationships with them were anything but.

Friends doesn't sound painful and aching and the open wound that stings inside her. Friends doesn't imply dreams, dreams of coppery blood and ripped screams and their broken bodies. Friends doesn't touch it.

But she lets him touch her. Run his hands over her pale skin, making her gasp and forget. Lets him hold her, pull her close, cover her much smaller palm with his. There's something heady about him that intoxicates and infuriates her.

In company, he's impossible. Stubborn and rude and thoughtless and jealous. God, the jealousy. One look and he's practically strangling someone. The slightest physical contact and he's ready to be a murderer. Maybe he already is. But she doesn't think about that.

She tells him her fears, about what she's lost and what she's found in him. And how her nightmares are filled with evil and how he'll never be safe, they'll never be safe. And it happening again, over and over. And she admits she doesn't know who she is, who he is and she's sure this will all end in tears.

He just smiles in that unreadable way of his, that delicious way of his.

'Hey, you're mine.'


End file.
